


What Marks an Undoing

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Dubious Consent, Episode Related, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Pollen, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 03:25:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6548710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been weeks since Aramis called it off. It's been weeks since Porthos has told himself to stop thinking about it. And then someone slips something into their drinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Marks an Undoing

**Author's Note:**

> So hundreds of years ago, I got a request to do a sex pollen trope fic. idk if this technically fulfills that? I decided to just embrace the trope and Not Explain Anything. This takes place shortly after 2x03 but before 2x04, if you're hoping for a placement of time.
> 
> But, by proxy of this trope/alcohol being involved, this fic **has dubious consent elements that might upset people.** So please proceed with caution if you're sensitive to that kind of thing.

It’s the first day since Porthos’ been released from his bedrest that the sun is strong enough to warm through their clothes. Spring is steady-going now, leaving the low dredges of winter behind. The warmer weather, the surgeon reassured, will only help his leg recover. He’s grateful for it, really – the chance to be breathing easier, to actually work out these kinks in his muscles. He hates being useless. He hates being stuck in a room, alone, when his brothers are out there struggling and potentially getting hurt. 

He remembers Aramis looking over it last week, tutting, disappointed that he couldn’t dress the wound when the bolt was first drawn out. Porthos had only been able to offer him a shaky, tentative smile that said, _Yeah, sorry about that._

There hadn’t been time, then. Too much dust in the air, a need for a weapon, a need to protect himself and Samara. To get out. To find his brothers again. He couldn’t think of proper approach, a tourniquet, clean bandages – it was just a matter of getting on even footing again. It’s easy to ignore the pain when there’s something that needs to be done. 

They’re letting Porthos go out now, but only slowly. Nothing strenuous, and no riding on horses. He’s to walk the lower market square, not too far from the garrison, and leave it at that. It feels as if he is being babied but at the same time, he also knows he can hardly run quickly like this, should the need arise. 

He sighs out, following behind the others. The ground is starting to thaw and there are little flowers managing to push out through the crags of dirt and filth – something that might seem an impossibility but only reminds him that Paris is in spring now, just beginning to blossom. It makes him smile, to turn his head and see little yellow flowers pushing out from the ground despite the hardships of living in a city like this, of living poor. Dirt and grit and muck – but also quiet moments of beauty. 

The sun is in Aramis’ hair. He thinks it, unbidden, when Aramis removes his hat to scrub his hand through his hair, pushing it back into that disheveled, cultivated mess of his. He’s been growing it out. It touches well beyond his ears now. Porthos likes it, remembers saying as much before—

(Porthos, fingers curling into his hair, tugging him in close so they can kiss. Aramis, laughing softly and cupping his cheeks.) 

He hardly should be thinking about that now. 

He’d thought Aramis beautiful long before he knew what it felt like to kiss him, what it felt like to be under him or over him, to see him come apart. He’s beautiful now, too, the light in his hair, touching his cheeks. He’s always been beautiful. Aramis at once knows it and doesn’t know it – is at once swelling beneath the compliments and constantly taken aback by genuine sentiment. 

He shouldn’t be so damn sentimental now. 

He can’t help it. His breast pocket is heavy with the book of poetry Samara gave him. He can’t translate it yet, doesn’t know Arabic, but there are a few poems written out in French that he knows must be Samara’s hand. It’s a gift. He’ll treasure it always. She must be well out into the sea by now – crossing down through France, leaving through the ports towards Morocco. He hopes she finds what she’s looking for there. 

When he comes back to himself, rousing from his wayward thoughts, Aramis is watching him. Porthos smiles at him and Aramis offers a tentative smile and then looks away again, speeds his pace to travel alongside d’Artagnan, ducks his head to start discussing something with him. His mouth pulls into a small smile, his words soft.

(Aramis, on his back, smiling up at him and touching his face – smile soft, words softer—

His skin damp with sweat, pieces of hair sticking to his forehead. Smiling at him. 

Kiss me again. Kiss me like you love me. A soft-spoken plea, then. A plea Porthos could only ever respond to like this: kissing him, slow and soft. Kiss me again. Again.) 

Athos knocks on the door to the merchant they’re meant to be catching up on. There’s no answer, and after a few still moments, d’Artagnan moves to bust down the door. It’s an older door, hardly takes much of a slam for it to bust inward. The four of them walk in, spread out, start searching. 

Porthos leafs through the miscellaneous work orders and letters strewn over a table. There’s not much to work with, really. He fans the papers out in front of him, leaf-thin. He’d give anything to have access to so much paper, the books lining the shelves. It’s a humble home, but full of promise and certainty. This merchant is hiding something. It’s why they’re here.

“Any luck?” Aramis asks behind him, close enough that if Porthos wanted – if he was allowed to – he could reach out and touch Aramis. He keeps thumbing through the papers instead, doesn’t look up. He’s glad that, despite it all, Aramis is still his friend – doesn’t flinch away from him. The first few weeks after, they’d—

It’s better now that Aramis will look at him. 

(Those first few days: Aramis looking away, avoiding his eye. Saying nothing. Smiling a tilted, strained smile that never touched his eyes. The four of them splitting up to work – Aramis always going with Athos, with d’Artagnan. Never with Porthos. If the other two noticed, they said nothing.) 

“No,” Porthos says. “There’s nothing here.” 

“We’ll find something,” Aramis says, either a platitude or a way to fill the empty space of silence between them. Porthos hears Aramis shift from foot to foot. “Porthos—”

“Found something!” d’Artagnan calls from the other room and Porthos steps back from the table, nodding towards the doorway for Aramis. Aramis looks like a startled animal, for half a second, before he recaptures himself and offers a small smile, turning away, walks through the door. Porthos watches him go before following. 

“What is it?” Porthos asks, last to get into the room. 

“Trade manifests,” d’Artagnan says, holding up what he’s found. “Looks like a meeting point towards the south gate.” 

“When?” Aramis asks.

“Two days from now. Looks like there’s another meet up – here,” d’Artagnan says, indicating a spot on the hastily scribbled notes: a tavern, not too far from here. Discreet. Quiet. A side-street easily overlooked. 

“We’ll head that way,” Athos says, with a brief nod. “Look at the gate and also the tavern, in case our man shows up.” 

They set out. Porthos with Athos, towards the gate. Aramis and d’Artagnan, towards the tavern. 

Athos notices him limping, though. He gives him a slow, begrudging look that Porthos just shrugs off. A moment later, d’Artagnan’s at his good side, offering a shoulder. Porthos takes it after a little hesitation. 

“Porthos should go to the tavern,” Athos says after a thoughtful moment. “Not as far.” 

Beside him, d’Artagnan nods. “I’ll go with you to the gate.”

“Oh,” Aramis says, about to protest. Athos gives him a sharp look, though, and he falls silent. Porthos’ stomach twists up, unpleasant. 

Aramis hovers somewhere behind his bad side, not close enough to touch, but close enough that Porthos can almost feel him fretting. He doesn’t turn towards him, almost afraid of what kind of expression Aramis would be wearing. Things are still too tentative between them. He doesn’t want to look. 

(Look at me: Aramis begging, sprawled on his back, reaching for him. Porthos, Porthos—

Porthos looking at him. Unable to look away.)

They get to the tavern, d’Artagnan helping to get Porthos into a seat with his back to the wall. Aramis and Athos are having a low conversation not too far off that Porthos pretends not to notice, especially when Aramis eventually slumps over and sits down across him him. 

Athos and d’Artagnan head out after that, once the four of them have exchanged some thoughts and protocols – and Aramis stands abruptly to get them some drinks. 

The evening passes silent like that. Awkward. Porthos says little and Aramis says even littler. They stay on the lookout for their suspicious persons while still maintaining the illusion of drink and company. It isn’t unlikely that two men should pass in silence, drinking steadily. They play it off as that. Porthos has little to say that he thinks would be well received by Aramis. 

(A night not unlike this – Porthos pinned down, Aramis’ steady hands over his chest, touching him. Whispering, _Porthos—_ )

The evening passes. They gather more and more drinks. Soon, Porthos can recognize the warmth in his body as something entirely different from the spring air. A warmth all over his body, starting at his fingertips – a vivid intoxication. Colors and sounds around him. He can smell the stink of men and drinks and fire crackling in its grove. It’s been a while since he drank, really, beyond just quenching thirst. He closes his eyes briefly, hears Samara’s poetry, feels the drag of a bolt leaving his leg. 

He should stop drinking. Aramis beside him is flushed in the face but not looking at him, staring down into his half-empty cup. How many has he had by now? He’s frowning down at it, puzzling. 

“What is it?” Porthos asks. 

“Something in our drink,” Aramis says, quietly, casts his glance towards the barkeep – who looks remarkably different from the young woman who served their drinks a quarter of an hour ago. Porthos’ shoulders stiffen up. 

“Poison?” Porthos asks. 

“Something different,” Aramis says, quiet, licking his lips in a slow and calculated drag. “You can feel it, can’t you?”

“Just thought I was drunk,” Porthos admits in a quiet murmur, embarrassed and frustrated he wouldn’t have noticed this before – how many times, growing up, has he seen beggars from the Court slip things into drinks, to make someone act loopy without killing them, all the better to slip greedy fingers into pockets. Or killing them outright. Plenty of that, too. They’re lucky their carelessness isn’t rewarded by death. 

“We need to get out of here,” Aramis stands. “They know we’re here. Whoever they are. And—” He sucks in a sharp breath, lets it out in a slow rush. “We need to get to Athos and d’Artagnan. Make sure they’re alright.” 

Porthos nods, but when he stands he feels too tipsy – his leg still weak from the injury coupled with whatever’s been put into their drinks. Not poison, not really. If it were poison, they’d already be dead. Convulsing. Vomiting. Something. Instead, it must be some kind of intoxication, something to make them act strangely, differently. 

Aramis reaches out a steadying hand and cups his elbow. “Lean on me.” 

Porthos closes his eyes and does so, lets himself sink into the curve of Aramis’ hand – comfort in that, really. Comfortable. Reassurance. He could always rely on Aramis – could always know that he’d have his back, if it came down to it. 

Would Aramis have his back now? (Yes. Yes of course he would – he dismisses the thought before it can occur, remembers too many times the shout of Aramis’ voice when Porthos falls to one knee, remembers too many times the curve of his smiling mouth against his temple. Aramis is—)

He really, really shouldn’t be thinking about that now. 

He can feel Aramis radiating warmth beside him. The touch is so brief, barely there – and all he wants to do is touch. All he wants to do is draw Aramis into his arms. Whisper to him. Kiss him. Remind him of everything he let go of, let go of everything that made them _them_ and—

_Stop thinking about it._

It’s not the good kind of desire, though. It isn’t something that makes him happy to think of it. There is an uncomfortable edge to it. The thought that if he were to reach out and touch properly, he would not stop. His mind is fuzzy with drink. He can’t think like this. Not now. Not when Aramis has already told him it’s over. Not after Aramis has already moved on—

They go out the back door to the tavern, a small side street full only of broken crates and filth. Aramis leans heavily against the wall, heaves in a shuddering breath. Porthos slowly sits down on a crate, trying to heave in air to his lungs. He watches, dazed and yet mesmerized, as Aramis undoes the top button of his coat – as if he is too warm. There is sweat beading at his throat, along his temples. His hair clings to the sides of his cheeks from sweat. 

Porthos’ head swims with the sudden movement of sitting down, no matter how slow he’s moved. He closes his eyes, wishes for equal footing even when not moving. He sways forward. 

Aramis’ hand reaches out, steadies his shoulder. A completely ordinary thing. But it sparks through him. Even this is innocent. And yet, not. But, then, they’d always been anything but innocent with each other—

They were friends, first. Then they were friends who fucked. And now they aren’t fucking. They’re people who are — Porthos tries not to think about it, tries not to think about his own startling realization of his feelings only once things ended. Love. Of course. Of course, love. 

( _I’m sorry_ , Aramis says, not looking at him – withdrawing from him, shying away. _I can’t. I’m sorry,_ he’d whispered that night, pulling away from Porthos’ hand on his hip. The air still thick with sex between them. Looking away. Saying, _I can’t. I’m sorry, Porthos, I—_

Gesturing weakly. Not able to speak. 

Porthos, confused, angry, hurt – looking down and saying, _I get it._

He didn’t. He didn’t get it. He wanted to say as much.

Instead, _It’s alright._ ) 

Aramis looks guilty from the touch. Snatches his hand back. 

(Porthos, going back to his room and staring at the ceiling. Aramis, gone. Aramis, no longer thinking of him. Aramis, ready to move on.

Porthos, looking up at the ceiling, realizing, _I love him._

Having no one to say it to. Knowing he has to move on. Knowing that he never will. That he wouldn’t want to.) 

Aramis looks guilty. Pupils blown wide. Their bodies are too warm – Porthos feels too warm, can see the warmth in Aramis’ eyes, the way the heat is radiating off him now. He can feel it. It’s too much. 

He stumbles back a step. Slumps against the wall. “Whatever this is…” he starts to say, then trails off. “Whatever this is—”

“I know,” Porthos says, strained. He stares up at the sky. The sun long gone now, the two of them in darkness. Lanterns on the street casting long shadows to this secluded corner. He swallows down thick. Can hear Aramis’ rattling breath in answer. 

(He never got the chance to tell Aramis how he feels. Realized too late. Couldn’t tell him now – not when it wouldn’t be accepted, not when Aramis made his choice. Made his choice and Porthos wasn’t it. He never did ask him for an explanation. Didn’t want to make Aramis give one.) 

Porthos breathes out.

( _I want you,_ he could have said. _I love you,_ he could have said. _We’re friends but it became more. It isn’t just sex. Come back._

Or, _I think you might love me._

Or, _I think I know why you left. It’s okay._

Or, _Please say you love me, too._ )

Aramis grits his teeth. Blows out a low breath. Drags his teeth across his lip in a way that’s obscene. Porthos closes his eyes. Breathes out slow. 

Aramis turns towards him. Looks at him.

“Porthos,” he whispers. His voice is reedy, thin with desire. Desire. That’s what it is. Watches as Aramis reaches out as if to touch, resting his palm against the wall instead, leans down over Porthos where he sits. He says, quieter, “Porthos.” 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, somehow understanding what is said and left unsaid. Tipping his chin up. Then closing his eyes and turning his head away when Aramis leans down closer. “You’re drunk. We’re both drunk.” 

Aramis’ breath whooshes out of him. He sways above him. Porthos’ head is spinning as Aramis drifts closer and then floats away. Tries to pull himself away and is unable to. Plants both hands on the wall above Porthos’ head, bows towards him, head dipped. Hair falling into his eyes. 

Porthos looks up at him. God. He’s beautiful like this. He’s always thought so, has always known that Aramis is beautiful—

( _Say it again,_ Aramis gasps out when Porthos presses the kisses into his skin, says the word over and over. Porthos grins. Says it again. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful—)

“Won’t you kiss me?” Aramis whispers, quietly. 

“We’re drunk,” Porthos says again. Worse, something in their drink – making them feel this way, like the low-thrumming of desire will never go away, that he wants to badly to reach out and touch and never let go. But he can’t. He can’t. 

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for so long,” Aramis says, as if he was not the one to draw away. Porthos does not point this out. 

“Aramis,” Porthos says, admission and warning.

“You must know,” Aramis whispers, voice thick. “I… you must know I still – I didn’t say we should stop because I didn’t—”

“I know,” Porthos interrupts, both as a protection against Aramis stumbling for the words as well as a protection from him saying something he might not want Porthos to know. No, he already knows. He’s always known it wasn’t Aramis not trusting him or wanting him – always knew that wasn’t the reason, even if Aramis wouldn’t tell him why, even if he never asked Aramis why.

“So why don’t you—”

“You had a reason,” Porthos says, quietly. “Before.” 

The drink’s done something to them. Aramis’ hands slide lower over the wall, closer towards him. Porthos wants so desperately to touch, to hold him. 

“It was a bad one,” Aramis says. 

Porthos’ mouth almost hints a smile. He holds it back. He shakes his head, slowly, wanting so desperately. So much. So painfully. 

“I’ll die if you don’t touch me,” Aramis says, eyes closed. “It feels like that. Doesn’t it feel like that?” 

Porthos nods, even with Aramis’ eyes shut. He swallows thickly. Aramis is trembling, fingers curling against the wall. He bows closer. Despite his words, Porthos finds himself leaning up closer towards him, seeking him out. Feeling warm all over. 

“I—” Porthos starts. Stops. Swallows down. “I can’t.” 

“Why not?” Aramis practically sobs. He’s trembling. There’s an unhappiness twisting his face that Porthos despises. 

“Wouldn’t be worth it,” Porthos says, continues quickly when Aramis flinches. “Wouldn’t be worth it – if you couldn’t even look at me after. Why would I want this… if you couldn’t look at me later,” Porthos breathes out, shaky.

(Remembers, Aramis leaving him. Remembers, the next day – Aramis not looking at him. Not being able to meet his eye. Not being able to look at him for days afterwards.) 

Even today, not being able to look at him.

Aramis’ breath hitches. It’s only getting worse. 

“I just…” Aramis whispers, voice thick. “I wouldn’t regret it. Just – you can at least kiss me. Kiss me – like you love me. Like you mean it.” 

Porthos stares at him. Quietly, he says, “I would. I – I _did_ mean it.” 

He’s about to say more but Aramis lurches forward – kisses him. It’s only a kiss, barely a kiss. But it feels like full-body contact. Porthos’ breath rattles. A hand on his arm, holding him hard. The other hand cupping his cheek. Kissing him again and again now. Porthos moaning before he can stop himself. Hands scrambling to grip Aramis in turn. 

“I promise,” Aramis whispers. “I won’t regret this.” 

Porthos doesn’t sob around the words, but the urge is there – and instead he kisses him hard. Like he means it. Like he loves him.

He does. He does. 

God, he does. 

His hold on Aramis is almost ungentle, tight enough to bruise. They kiss hard in that side alley – an impossible, reckless promise. Porthos wants to believe Aramis won’t run away. He wants to believe it. 

Once they start, they can’t stop. Aramis crawls into his lap – lifts his hips enough when Porthos hisses in pain at what it does to his leg. Curls his arms around his neck. Kisses him again and again—

Needs him. 

They’re outside. They should stop. He’ll regret this. He’ll stop looking at him again—

( _Look at me,_ Aramis begging, arching, about to come, _Look at me, look at me—_ )

There’s scuffling. Aramis settles on the crate Porthos sits on. Rocks his hips down. They are both absurdly hard, just from this, just from the touch of their mouths, the heat in their blood. Porthos yanks Aramis’ coat off his shoulders, kisses him harder. Aramis moans out, softer, bites at Porthos’ lip. 

Porthos feels it, feels himself collapse under it. Gives in to it. 

Frantic kisses, then. Kisses for every night he wasn’t able to kiss Aramis, for every night Aramis didn’t come to him—

Kisses for every single time he’s looked at Aramis and been struck by how much he wants him, how much he loves him – for stupid, little things. Every little tweak of his mustache, every little laugh, ever little bite into an apple only to wrinkle his nose when it’s mealy. Everything. 

Their kisses are uncoordinated, messy – they blur together. Aramis fumbles. Rocks his hips forward. Starts circling them so that their cocks press together through their clothes. The want keeps building. He’s too warm. He wants so much. He bites Aramis’ shoulder just to hear Aramis gasp. 

Aramis’ hands on the back of his head, clinging, guiding him. Sucking bruises into his collarbone. 

Desire between them. Thick and heated. Growing larger and unbidden. Mirrored in their eyes. Porthos, looking at Aramis. Aramis, looking at Porthos. Only seeing love there—

Love. It is love. It has to be love.

It is at once liberating and terrifying. 

It doesn’t matter. All that matters is this: Aramis kissing him.

Or this: Aramis pushing him back against the wall and down against him. Kissing every part of his face. Sucking his lip into his mouth, working it with his teeth.

Or this: the press of Aramis’ thighs against his, the roll of his cock against his. Searching for relief. Shuddering. Moaning. Searching for some kind of relief. Porthos fisting uselessly at Aramis’ clothes, trying to strip him down enough to get at his skin, trying to remind himself they’re outside. Reminding himself it no longer matters. 

When Porthos gets his hand on Aramis’ cock, Aramis moans out – keens with it, arches his back. Runs his hands down Porthos’ chest, smiles when Porthos arches into it. There’s no finesse to it. Only the slick of his hand on skin, over his cock, squeezing. Strokes him off until Aramis comes, throwing his head back, muffling his shout with the groan of Porthos’ name. 

Aramis, spilling out over his hand.

Using the slick on his fingers to reach for Porthos – stroke him off. Wriggle in his lap. Frantic with want, with heat. Feeling Porthos spill across his hand. Licking his fingers clean. Locking eyes with Porthos. 

Porthos’ body shakes. 

Aramis leans forward – kisses him. Porthos tastes himself on his tongue. 

(Later, he thinks, he will have to check later. Make sure that he is alright. Make sure that they are alright.

Worries now that it is ruined. 

Worries now that he has ruined it.)

Aramis touches his cheek with his hand, a careful thing. He looks as if he might cry, bone-deep, eyes misted. Porthos knows his are, too. Horribly sentimental. 

Aramis kisses him. 

( _Don’t regret it,_ Porthos thinks, even on the first night when Aramis rides him, hands on his shoulders.

_Don’t regret me,_ he thinks but doesn’t say.) 

He kisses Aramis back – scared and yet strangely calmed. Hoping. Desperately hoping. 

( _Come here,_ Porthos telling him, gathering him into his arms.

_I’ve got you,_ he tells Aramis, feels the way he shivers against him.)

Aramis curls his arms around him. Stays close. 

(Days, weeks, months later – Aramis reaching for Porthos, leading him down the stairs as he trips over his injured leg, the wound from the bolt still fresh.

Aramis, in that moment, whispers, _I’ve got you,_ even though they have not touched in so long. But Porthos will believe him. Always will believe him.

_I’ve got you._ )

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found [on my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/), as always.


End file.
